


it ends where it begins

by postcardmystery



Series: in a revolution one wins or dies [1]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M, Riots, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm and Jamie unseat, debrief, and consolidate.</p><p>(Malcolm & Jamie, 1987-2007)</p>
            </blockquote>





	it ends where it begins

**Author's Note:**

> TW for riots and violence.

i. Glasgow, 1990

 

“We’re gonnae have tae make a choice, aren’t we, one of these days,” says Jamie, smoke drifting from his mouth like a flag, and their city is beautiful, almost and always, in the 5am light.

“What we need tae do,” says Malcolm, snarl catching in the back of his throat like a knife, “Is fuckin’ _win_.”

“But Militant--” starts Jamie, and Malcolm interrupts, snarl thickening, “Militant Tendency will lose us the fuckin’ election, MacDonald. They make us look old-fashioned. They make us look _weak_.”

“But ye agree wi’them!” hisses Jamie, and Malcolm snatches the fag out of his hand, takes a long drag, “Do I agree with Marx? Yes, obviously, don’t be a fuckin’ jessie. But this isnae fuckin’ Marx, son. This is a buncha fuckin’ twats in berets makin’ us look like we don’t know what fuckin’ decade it is. Do ye _want_ another ten years of starvin’ kiddies and strikes as far as the eye can see?”

“No,” says Jamie, sullenly, and Malcolm stamps on the fag with his Docs, mimics it back to Jamie, _no_.

“So what?” says Jamie, those blue eyes narrowed, bright and clear and deadly, “We ruin ‘em?”

“Aye,” says Malcolm, and Jamie grins, says, “Guerilla warfare. Shouldae said, Malc. Ye know what I’m good at.”

“Talkin’ shite and never bringin’ the washin’ in?” says Malcolm, but there’s a smile caught in the corner of his mouth like a fishhook.

“Wannae go first?” says Jamie, eyes wild, and there’s method in his madness, Malcolm knows, because he _is_ the method, and he knows exactly how he needs this to go.

“Nah,” says Malcolm, still just-not-smiling, “Ye get the first turn. I’d be pickin’ councillors outtae me teeth all day.”

A stray dog noses up to sniff at the remnants of the ground-out fag, ribs standing out across its torso like a xylophone. Jamie slips his hand in Malcolm’s pocket to nick his lighter, hand grazing the inside of Malcolm’s thigh, just a tease, and his wrists are too thin-- food scarce for the past few months, Malcolm knows, and Jamie always makes sure his Mam eats first, soft cunt that he is. Somehow, somewhere, caught between these two things, Malcolm’s motivation for this entire fuckin’ stupid mental maybe _suicidal_ thing lies.

 

 

 

ii. London, 2007

 

“I know why ye did it,” says Malcolm, and a stationary cupboard is _exactly_ the most ridiculous place they could be doing this, but that’s the glamour of politics for you, “Which is why yer still alive, ye traitorous fuckin’ cunt.”

“Better a traitor than a fuckin’ _collaborator_ ,” says Jamie, hands balled into the lapels of Malcolm’s jacket, face too close, mouth too close, feet almost on top of Malcolm’s own.

“I, in case ye have forgotten, am tryin’ to keep us in fuckin’ power,” says Malcolm, very carefully not moving, breathing, thinking, “This is fuckin’ Perestroika, in case yer glue-sniffin’ days have caught up with ye too dramatically tae notice.”

“Don’t fuckin’ condescend to me, son, I know exactly which fuckin’ gutter ye was fuckin’ born in,” says Jamie, teeth almost in Malcolm’s neck, “Perestroika _failed_. USSR shat itself and died a death. I want _Glasnost_. A real leadership race. I want a fuckin’ _revolution_.”

Malcolm presses a foot down over Jamie’s, hooks a leg around the back of Jamie’s thigh, pulls him in, drags a hand through his hair, until his neck is bared, white, whispers, almost fond, “We _are_ the fuckin’ revolution, ye stupid bastard.”

When Jamie kisses him, as always, the world turns red.

 

 

 

iii. Brighton, 2005

 

“They’ve arrested 600 people at the doors under the new terrorism laws,” says the only aide brave enough to tell the already legendary Malcolm Tucker that the Conference is going to be a PR shitstorm of epic proportions, and is out of the door before Malcolm even has a chance to speak.

“They better not fuckin’ charge any of them, Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” says Malcolm, and Jamie nods, pulls his jacket on, says, “Already done, boss.”

It’s been nearly twenty years, and no words but _The Red Flag_ have ever sounded as right as to Malcolm as _boss_ in that wee psycho’s mouth.

 

*

“I made a copper piss hisself,” says Jamie, and Malcolm meets him, wolf’s grin for wolf’s grin, says, “Aye, there’s me boy.”

 

 

 

iv. London, 1997

 

Later, Malcolm will feel cheated over how little he remembers.

But in the moment, he’s immortal, screaming himself hoarse for more polling numbers, locking a drunk and misbehaving MP in the gents to keep him away from the cameras, and when he throws a decanter of whisky at the same MP two hours later and watches it smash against the wooden panelling, he picks up the glass from the floor himself.

“But that’s what the cleaners are for,” says an MP whose blue blood had already marked him down as _prey_ in Malcolm’s book, and Jamie has to shove the man out of the door and lock it to ensure that the secondary headline in the morning isn’t about Malcolm’s arrest for murder.

“We’ve probably won, yeah,” says Jamie, and Malcolm looks up from where he’s sponging whisky off the wall, says, “Aye. Too late to nip round to Ladbrokes and put a bet on, shite.”

“I love you,” says Jamie, and then nothing else, which is the most frightening thing which has ever happened to Malcolm in his entire life.

“And?” says Malcolm, and Jamie cocks his head, smirk widening, says, “Nah, ye dinnae get it. There is no _and_. We won. I love ye. We’re gonna set the Tories on fire and piss on their fuckin’ remains. Get out there and strike terror intae the army you built, Malc. Dinnae take yer eyes off the ball, yer not Richard Gough.”

Malcolm steps close, says, low, “Is that a tire-iron in yer pocket, or are ye just pleased to see is?”

“Er, well, ye see--” says Jamie, and as the bell tolls midnight, Malcolm sinks his hungry teeth into Jamie’s lip.

 

 

 

v. Glasgow, 1987

 

Malcolm’s busy getting seven kinds of shite kicked out of him at an anti-apartheid demonstration -- his editor made him take a day off, which will later what becomes known in the newsroom as A Malcolm Mistake -- when the arm that’s choking him suddenly comes with teeth attached.

He looks up into the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, and the mouth attached to those eyes screams, “Scatter, ye stupit fuckin’ cunt.”

Malcolm makes sure to elbow the copper in the knackers, first.

 

*

“I owe ye a pint,” says Malcolm, slumped and panting in an alleyway with a tiny nutter who still has blood smeared across most of his face.

“Aw, fuck you, ye owe me ten,” says the lunatic, and Malcolm reaches across to touch where the other man’s cheekbone has split, says, “I’ll buy ye whatever ye like as long as ye let me take ye to A&E, first.”

“Fuck off,” says the man who is shortly to tell Malcolm that he is Jamie _fuckin’_ MacDonald, and Malcolm will say, _of those MacDonalds_ , and Jamie will say, _aye_ , and then fall in love with Malcolm instantly when then man doesn’t even blink, “What the fuck would w’say if th’ask how Ah got it?”

“I have somethin’ of a way with words,” says Malcolm, coolly, and offers a hand to give Jamie a leg up.

Jamie doesn’t even think before taking it. When Jamie drips blood on him, Malcolm doesn’t flinch.


End file.
